


The Mask Comes Off

by gracediamondsfear



Category: Dark Knight Rises (2012)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-07
Updated: 2012-11-15
Packaged: 2017-11-18 03:39:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/556492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gracediamondsfear/pseuds/gracediamondsfear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Story of Bane and Talia before TDKR.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Mask Comes Off

The mask comes off.

But only rarely, and only for a select few people, and only for a short time. He’s always let her help him since she won’t wince at the scarring around his eyes and mouth, how pale his skin is, the blue white cast of his lips, like a corpse, the metal ports in the back of his skull that make him look factory made. Because she’s the only one who remembers that he isn’t. She won’t back away when he chokes on the first breaths of fresh air, unfamiliar, too fragrant and too empty, delivering nothing but worthless oxygen. No one else can be there. He won’t allow it. He won’t let anyone else see how quick the strength dissolves into quivering weakness. He won’t let anyone else see him beg for her to put it back on. 

Once the hoses are disconnected and the side straps unlocked, she can peel off the pieces and set them aside, looking into his eyes and smiling, reassuring. She can tell by his eyes when the pain is too great, when their time is up. But now he closes them and focuses on a steady breathing pattern, focuses on the smell of her hair, how he can feel her standing behind him, the heat from her body, her fingertips on the back of his neck rubbing the base of his skull. She finds pressure points to release tension, massages the knots out of the thick ropes of muscle connecting neck and shoulder. These are the few minutes of bliss, or normality perceived as bliss that he recalls when he tries to fall asleep or slow his pulse, to remind himself that he’s still a human being for the most part. Altered, but human.

She kisses the back of his head before moving back to the mask to fix the tube he broke and clean the hinges on the left side that are glossy with the drying blood of someone who “disagreed with him” he says.

“Eat something while you can,”

She hands him a battered aluminum bottle filled with some horrifying cocoa colored sludge. He swallows it in three gulps, shivers and groans. On the table beside him are five pills and a syringe filled with a cloudy white liquid, his after dinner mint.

Sometimes when they sit alone on the roof she tells him about her favorite food. About crème brulee and beef wellington, super crispy salty French fries, butter pecan ice cream. He listens, smiles when she smiles, but only because it makes her so happy to tell him about it. He’d do anything to see her happy, but he doesn’t understand. He’s never had a connection with food as anything other than an immense nuisance necessary for life. Not unlike the mask. He’s grown tired of necessities, how even the strongest man becomes a slave to things so small. She injects the cocktail into his thigh and he growls. He doesn’t like shots.

She gets a basin of warm water and a cloth and cleans the skin around his scar, then his neck, his head, his face. He’s sustained for days just looking forward to these minutes. It’s these rare moments of contact that he recycles through the tubes when she’s not there. She hums while grooming him, the same songs she sang as a little girl when he would wash the sickly yellow clay dust from her hands and face and make sure she was fed.

“Thank you,” he says, his voice hoarse, graveled, so much smaller without the amplification.

She massages a soothing cream into his cheeks, his chin, a balm over his lips, the bridge of his nose where a permanent red callus has formed. Over his shoulder she sees the time on a monitor. It’s been eight minutes and he’s still calm, still breathing evenly. The more she does this, the easier it is, the longer he can last. She doesn’t mention the time, just sits on his lap facing him and wraps her arms around his neck, rests her head on his chest. His heartrate is slow, his body not yet in withdrawal.

“What’s this for?” he asks, not wanting her to move.

“I can hear your heart,” she says, and he smiles. 

At night, in the darkness, she used to curl up on his chest to sleep like a gangly fawn, her limbs nothing but skin and bones. She would listen to his heartbeat, stronger then, more assuring, and tell him she heard messages in the rhythm.

“What does it say?” he asks her now, feeling the tiniest flicker of panic around the edges of this happiness. The window is closing.

“It says I’m strong, getting stronger. Stronger when I’m with you.”

He puts his arms around her and holds her to him, wishing it were true. As of late he’s feeling weaker, no matter what they put through the mask, no matter what they shoot into his leg. It’s not working anymore. She says that she’s going away soon and that he’ll have to say strong to help her, to help himself. She says that soon they’ll be on the top looking down, they’ll own everything they can see including maybe, someone who can get him out of the mask for good. He believes her because she wants him to.

His heartbeat quickens and she pulls back. His eyes have gone dark, the pupils dilated, his brow furrowed.

“Are you ok?” she asks, stroking his cheek, one finger tracing over his lips, parting them. All he can do is nod. He’ll lie as long as he can fake it, but the spikes of agony, like lightning bolts are digging into his spine, his brain. “Don’t think about it. Just look at me,” she says.

He does, but she’s blurring in front of him. She holds his face in her hands and presses her lips to his. They’re dry, warm, and for a moment he doesn’t move at all. Then she feels the slightest pressure push back, feels the wetness of the inside of his lip touching hers. It’s enough.

She breaks the kiss first when she feels him trembling. Sweat dots his forehead, his skin has gone ashen.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his hand on her cheek, his thumb brushing her lips. “I can’t wait any longer.” 

She jumps from his lap to get the mask, clipping the parts together, fastening the custom ampoules to the delivery tubes. He starts growling, groaning, the muscles in his thighs twitching uncontrollably. His spine feels like a rod of fire from neck to waist, the storm of pain sparking down his arms and legs.

“Hurry,” he yells, overturning the chair he was sitting in, charging towards her. He bends his head down and she crowns him with his portable prison, locking it in place and adjusting the flow of medicine, holding his forehead to hers, making him look her in the eye.

“Breathe,” she says, guiding him to his bed. “Just breathe and rest.”

The pain starts to fade instantly, but its strength has exhausted him and he turns onto his side, facing away from her. She lays down next to him, one arm over his broad shoulders, resting her head between his shoulder blades.

“It’ll go away soon,” she soothes, running her fingers up and down his bicep. “You’ll feel better soon.”

It may be true. The pain in his spine is already fading. But he can still feel her lips on his, her chest pressed against his, and in an hour or so, when she knows he’s asleep, she’ll leave again, maybe for days. And then the pain will be worst of all.


	2. It's Time To Climb

The only way she would leave the pit was if he promised to follow.

“If I can climb out, you can too,” she said, her eyes still wide with the limitless optimism of a child. 

He smiled at her, tightening the pack of food and water they’d constructed together. He never actually promised her that he would follow, but he promised her that she would see him again, no matter what. That was enough for her; her untested faith. She threw her arms around him and they walked towards the pit, the prisoners around them already chanting. Someone else was on the rope, twenty feet up, inching his way towards the next foothold.

“Watch him,” he said, turning her face to the climbing wall. “Watch how he chooses each step, thinking before…”

“I know,” she said, looking back at her friend, her only family, her protector. “I know I can do it.”

 

Her features were softening, her face becoming heart shaped, a young woman’s face. He’d seen the men around them watching her grow. Waiting. And this was a world with no limits to its depravity, no law, no impropriety. They were like beasts. Like him. He knew what they were thinking when they heard her laugh, when they saw her running through the prison like a doe. He wasn’t immune. That’s why he kept her hair cropped close to her head even though she cried every time he sat her down to shave it. That’s why he kept her wrapped in long robes and scarves, even on the hottest days, only letting her play or sleep in a little white gown when they were alone in the far corner cell that he’d fought for.

He knew that when he saw her again she would be beautiful. If he saw her again. If she remembered to come back for him, or to look for him when she was older like they'd agreed. She was already beautiful. Her strength, her determination, her fearlessness. She pressed her forehead against his and smiled with anticipation. 

“I love you,” she said, her dirty fingers slapping against his cheeks. Nervous energy.

Before he could tell her the same the climber fell. Like all the rest he’d missed the jump to the third ledge. A roar went up and rippled through the prisoners as they jeered and howled, heckling the man limping his way back to hell. Frustration became anger and the failed climber lunged at someone in the crowd. Before he could pull her back towards the cell, to safety, the fight became a riot. Prisoners exploded from their cells and rushed the ladders. He wouldn’t be able to take her back. They wouldn’t make it.

“You have to go. Now,” he said, peeling her fingers from his arms.

Her excitement had turned to terror, her confidence dissolved in her tears. If she didn’t go now she’d never get out alive. She shook her head and hooked her legs around his waist. The crowd crushed in and pushed them forward against the stone staircase. A dark, bony hand reached out for the girl and he cracked the man’s nose with one punch. When he took her face in his hands one was covered with blood.

“Stop. Stop crying. It’s time to climb. If you stay here you’ll die. I can’t take care of you anymore. I can’t protect you anymore.”

He heaved her up onto the platform and backed away before she could grab for him. She cried out anyway, looking so small, too small, standing there alone, her arms stretched out to him.

“Don’t leave me!”

But he was already being pulled back into the escalating fights, already being punched in the kidney. He looked back only once, watching her make the jump to the third ledge, noticing only then that she hadn’t bothered to use the rope. That’s when the prisoners stopped. They began to cheer and chant for the little girl who brought them all new hope, watching her skitter up the last fifty feet like a nimble spider then disappear forever into the dome of light.

He never told her how much he loved her, how she kept him alive, kept him on this side of human. He knew then that he had to find her, he had to get out of this alive, no matter the cost. He would kill every man in there and climb to the top on their corpses, but he would get out. 

He never got to kiss her goodbye.


	3. The Girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some graphic sex in this chapter.

When she’s sure he’s asleep Talia kisses the back of his head and turns off the lights. She didn’t tell him that she wouldn’t be back for at least six months. She didn’t want to leave him that way. Not again. Before the guards come to escort her out she sees the girl.

There’s always a girl, no matter where he settles. The men find him a companion, a caretaker, a pet. She knows there’s more to the girl’s job description but chooses not to think about that. She drove him away years ago. His bed was no longer her business. 

“He’s sleeping,” she tells the girl.

“Oh, ok.”

She’s small, slight, if not for the determination in her face you'd think she'd be blown over by a breeze. Her skin is pale from living underground, eyes sunken and dull, set in shadowy sockets full of loss, sadness. Of course she’s not a girl at all; even though the soles of her feet are black from going barefoot in the tunnels, her hair wild and uncombed like a street urchin. Through her thin white gown Talia can see her breasts, the dark nipples, the thatch of hair between her legs. He calls her ‘the girl’. Talia is no fool. Before she can walk away the girl grabs her arm.

 

“You knew him before…”

“The mask?”

The girl blushes and looks at the ground, picking at the skin around her fingernails.

“Was he handsome?”

“He was. He is.”

“He won’t let me help him with the mask. With his…medicine,” she says. “He makes me leave whenever he takes it off.”

“He doesn’t want to scare you.”

The girl laughs then and disappears into his room.

There are times when the girl feels guilty for even being alive. His men slashed and burned their way through her town three months ago and had she not been in the upstairs bathroom showering she probably would have been dragged out into the street and shot like her sister and brother-in-law were. Her sister was a programmer, a game designer in her spare time, and the house was a stockpile of technology in the middle of nowhere – a gold mine for men like him. He raided the house himself, picking his way through the rubble after the panic died down. So it was Bane who found her on the floor of the shower, curled up with her hands covering her head, the water still pouring over her.

“And what’s this hidden treasure?” he asked.

She looked up at the sound of his voice, his breathing, and when she saw him she screamed.

“Now now,” he said, pulling her up by the arm. “You’re wasting your breath. Everyone who could have helped you is dead.”

She could tell by the way his eyes wrinkled that it all amused him quite a bit. She tried pulling away from him but realized it was a waste of energy.

“Here,” he said, handing her the robe she’d hung on the back of the door, his voice quieter but no less insistent. “Put this on and stop shaking. I have a proposition for you.”

 

She is not chained to the wall. She doesn’t wear a collar. She’s free to roam any part of the compound, but she knows her place. She occupies it voluntarily, knowing if she belongs to him, she's safe. The other men leave her alone, barely even look at her in fact. They all saw what happened to the two men who cornered her in a dark hallway. They all heard them screaming like little boys. 

That was the strange thing about him. Being always by his side she’d seen him break men’s necks, cut their throats without a pause in the conversation. Grown men, twice her size, knelt at his feet and begged for their lives before he shot them. But with her he was quiet. He was tentative and gentle. He spoke far more than he acted. His room, his…cave was further evidence of his life in dichotomy. Where there weren’t computers, components, weapons, there were books. Stacks of old dusty hard backs, notebooks filled with handwritten translations – French, Japanese, Arabic. Next to his bed were black plastic boxes filled with his analgesics and battered paperbacks with broken spines, some of them older than she is. She reads them when he’s gone. When she’s locked in, waiting. 

When he comes back from the streets, from work, she is his sedation. He comes in trembling, heaving with breath, unable to stand still. She leads him to a chair and makes him sit, makes him talk, makes him touch her skin to bring him back. He is a man made of scars. Small flesh colored starbursts from gunshot wounds, jagged bolts of lightning from knives, lumps of healed over bone near his shoulders and knees, and of course the scar on his back. The only one he won’t explain to her, the only one he doesn’t take pride in. She strips off his armor, his clothes. He says nothing, only stares at the ceiling. 

“I’ll draw your bath,” she says.

It isn’t luxurious, but the steel tub holds the heat well and it’s deep enough, large enough for both of them. She sits behind him in the water cleaning his arms, his back, his wounds. He keeps one hand on her thigh, stroking it with the back of his thumb. He’s never felt skin so soft, so flawless. Maybe once, but it was long ago and he doesn't think he'll ever feel it again.

Once he’s cleaned, once he’s relaxed, unwound, when she can see that his focus has moved away from pain, from violence, she slips around to sit in front of him, to face him. She covers his chest and stomach with kisses, touching her lips and the tip of her tongue to each scratch, each bruise, each cut not yet healed. Her hand moves between his legs. Already he’s hard, but the skin velvet soft, warm. His groans are amplified through the mask as he pulls her on top of him, sliding inside her with ease. She purrs, arches her back, taking in the pleasure of being so filled, falling into the rhythm of his thrusts. He doesn’t look her in the eye, but watches her hips move against his, slow, rolling like a wave.

He’s never hurt her, never threatened her. Even the first night she spent in his bed he did nothing but sleep, holding her in his arms like a security blanket, one leg hooked around her ankle to keep them intertwined. She reaches down between her own legs to feel him sliding in and out of her, slick and hot. She wants to open herself wider, to take more of him inside. His breath comes heavier as they work and she knows his release is close when he grabs for her hips and holds fast, his thrusts more frantic. He’s pushed to the edge by the way she whines, the way she breathes his name, pleading for him to touch her. He wants nothing more than this, to close his eyes and disappear into the hot heavy wave building deep inside. But he has to watch her now. He has to remember. He wants to see her face when he makes her come. She grabs the sides of the steel tub and grinds against him.

“Oh…” is all she can manage before it overtakes her. 

He feels her muscles clench around his prick, watches the pink flush burst across her chest, in her cheeks. She trembles and bucks like an animal in its death throes, her fingernails leaving scratches down his belly.

“Harder,” he growls, pushing up into her. 

He wants her to leave her own scars, to mark him. He wants to remember that he made someone feel good, that he gave life instead of taking it. The girl digs deep, six red lines down his ribcage. That’s when the dam breaks and he pulls her down against his chest to ride through it. She feels frail in his arms, like she’ll crumble to pieces at the slightest touch. He wants to stay this way, inside her, in the water, warm, silent. She pulls away and looks him in the eye, her hands on his mask, the hinges on the sides.

“I wish I could kiss you,” she whispers. 

“You can’t,” is all he says, pulling her hands away and pushing her off of him and leaving the bath.

“She told me about you. She told me that your face is…”

She stops talking when she can see his eyes. They’re darkened, keenly focused but exhausted. Not with the world or the mission or anything outside these walls, but with her. She's seen what happens to men who exhaust him.

“What did she tell you?” he asks, standing there nude, arms crossed challenging her to go on.

“Nothing,” she says, looking at the floor. “I’m sorry.”

She finds him a towel and clean clothes then moves to the table where his injections are prepared. He grabs her arm and turns her to face him.

“Go on with your speech darling,” he says, his face just inches from hers. His eyes flutter and roll with an inhalation of the medicine. Renewed strength.

There’s nowhere for the girl to go. He has her pinned against the table, one arm on each side to hold her still. She's shaking with cold, her skin still dripping, her hair wet down her back. She speaks to him in a quiet, childlike tone, an attempt to soothe the savage beast.

“She…she told me that you don’t want to scare me. She told me that your face wa…is beautiful.”

His eyes wrinkle at the corners and he gives a nod, a laugh of disbelief that relieves her. But as soon as it appears, it’s gone and his eyes are boring into hers again.

“That’s not all, is it?” he asks. “I can tell you have more you want to say. Get it all out so we can go to bed.”

“I just…it’s that…” she’s flustered at her inability to lie to him, or even to withhold the truth. He can draw it out of anyone, but her especially, because she bared herself to him so easily in the beginning. He slams his hand on the table hard, three times.

“I’m tired girl, what is it?”

“She hasn’t been back for two weeks. She used to come three times a week…every other day sometimes!” The words spill from her mouth like they’ve dropped on the floor, scattering fast before she can recall them. “I know you can take the mask off yourself, but that’s why I’m here isn’t it? You wanted me here to help you. Let me help you. What if she’s left you?” she says. “What if she’s never coming back? What if she’s abandoned you again? For good this time?” Even as she says it, she wants to stop herself but it’s too late.

He grabs hold of both of her arms and throws her to the floor, stepping on her throat with his bare foot. She squirms out from under him and runs to the corner she sleeps in, curling up, gasping for air. He doesn’t follow.

“I apologize,” he says. “I – I’m..” 

He doesn’t say anything else. Doesn’t know what else he could say, so he leaves her alone and goes back to work, angry that she’d said exactly what he’d been thinking for the last ten days.


	4. Leaving The Darkness

He’d given up on her before, in the years after she’d climbed out of the pit, when he was sick, injured, too weak to try the climb himself. Defeated, he sat on the stones and listened to the stories of the girl who climbed out then watched men fall to their deaths trying to jump without the rope. People started to wonder if the girl had ever been real. She became a legend while he faded away.

In the time before she returned he taught himself meditation, the key to closing yourself off by being completely open. Everyone, he learned, endures pain; but we must choose to acknowledge the suffering. And he suffered. He suffered at the hands of anyone he’d made suffer before him, anyone who realized he was at a disadvantage now in his constant agony, his drug induced stupor, his cluttered mind. He was broken. At night, when the doctor adjusted his spine and tinkered with the mask, when he cried out like an infant because there was never enough relief, Bane would ask him to cut his throat once he’d fallen asleep, to let him die while dreaming about her.

“And when she comes back for you?” The doctor said, “what do I tell her then?”

And so the mask was for her. He wore it to stay alive until she came back and found him, until he could kiss her goodbye. 

And like she promised, she brought an army. Her father’s army - a small handful of men who fluttered down the shaft like dark angels, calling his name. He sat, still as a statue and watched her walk past him, watched her glance at his bandages, his hunched shoulders, his shrunken form and walk away. Her hair had grown in, a shining chestnut brown, tied back away from her perfect face still overflowing with determination and purpose. She wielded two blades with practiced confidence, questioning prisoners as to his whereabouts while he sat behind her, drinking in the sound of her voice. Now a woman’s voice. When she was close enough he reached out and touched her ankle.

“My little princess came back for me,” he said, his voice muffled and distorted from the mask beneath his bandages. His eyes were still the same.

“Bane?”

She fell to the ground in front of him and pulled him into her arms, sobbing as if she’d found him dead. And for a moment, one moment, he was at peace. In that one moment he knew that she’d found her father, that she’d survived life outside the prison, whatever it was, and flourished without him holding her back. And she came back to say goodbye. For a moment, he was ready to give up.

“Father! It’s him, come quickly!”

But she wasn’t ready to let him give up.

She told him to cover his eyes, to close them, but he wanted to see what he’d been missing for close to thirty years. The sunlight was agony, piercing, the expanse of sky and sand was overwhelming, like looking into eternity – no walls, no end. Even the bleached desert held more color than he'd ever seen in his life. His throat tightened. He buried his head in his hands, ashamed at the tears that overtook him, tears he hadn’t cried since he was a child himself. It was too late for him to leave the darkness. This world above ground was not for him, too vivid, too fast. She should have left him behind. Instead, she slipped a pair of dark sunglasses over his eyes, curving the wire arms behind his ears, over the straps of the leather and wire mask. She rested her head on his shoulder, holding one of his hands between her two. 

“Now I can take care of you,” she said quietly. Her father watched with no discernable expression. He watched his daughter clinging to someone other than him.

"Thank you," Bane yelled to him over the rattling of the jeep. But the man only nodded curtly in return.

They said they would help him and Talia had stood possessively by his side, the youngest in the room, issuing orders that no expense be spared for her friend. After all, she wouldn't even be here if it weren't for him. The doctors were impressed with the makeshift breathing mask but horrified by the butchery of a surgery scar running down his spine. The surgery itself wasn’t much better, and they didn’t think there was anything that could be done to correct it, the years of scar tissue and damage done to his vertebrae would haunt him until the day he died. For nearly a week he was in bed, lines running into his arms supplying fluids and nutrients, antibiotics, painkillers, steroids. They drew blood and ran tests, took measurements of his skull, made a plaster cast of his face and head. The idea of a mask was ingenious, they thought. It might have use elsewhere in the League.

She was there when they showed him the new mask they'd created, when they shaved his head so it could fit more precisely.

“Truthfully, this isn’t a good road to travel,” the doctor said. “No matter how strong the medication, your body will adapt to it. It will need more. Right now you only need to wear the mask for a few hours a day. You can take it off to eat, to shower, to train. Wear it at rest, wear it when you can relax and breathe, not when you’re under stress.”

He nodded, looking at the angry pieces of steel and black rubber, the corrugated hoses, the aluminum bullets full of vapor. They were making him into a monster. Talia held his hand, but her smile was forced, trembling at the corners.

“But before you know it, this will have to be permanent.”

“Permanent?”

The doctor placed two small steel rings on the table in front of him, half an inch in diameter, half an inch thick, threaded on the inside like a screw.

“These will be implanted at the base of your skull. An additional port will be implanted at your wrist for you to control. From there we will be able pump the medicine through a catheter into your spinal fluid. A constant flow.”

He could feel Talia stumble a bit. Her face was pale, her eyes wide. He squeezed her hand.

“Don’t worry princess, I’ve been through worse.”

She wanted him to be who she remembered. Her hero. When the doctor left them alone she sat on the side of his bed.

“I wont ever be a hero, princess,” he said, smiling. “You’re the only one who thinks that.”

“They’re going to train us. We’ll be together, learning. You and I. My father has an army. I told you that, and when you’re well, you’ll be a part of it. You and I will…” she stopped before she could say ‘take over the world’ because it sounded so childish. But he squeezed her hand and nodded.

“Maybe,” he said. “But just seeing you again, seeing you well was enough for me. I don't need anything else.” He touched a hand to her cheek and she felt a sudden rush of blood, heat, low in her belly. His thumb brushed over her lips, parting them. Her scalp tingled. “You grew up so much…you’re so…”

She leaned forward and kissed his cheek. Before she could pull back he turned and kissed her mouth, catching her soft bottom lip between his. When she pulled back he was staring at her…differently. His eyes were trained on her lips, his mouth open, waiting for her to come back. She wanted to feel it again, the way he made her insides bubble with energy. He took her face in his hands and kissed her gently, pushing her lips apart so she could feel the tip of his tongue teasing her. 

“Talia,”

They broke apart and she saw her father in the doorway, his even expression hiding his anger.

“Father, I was…”

“You were. Go back to the house. This is no place for a young girl."

He said nothing to Talia's protector. The look that passed between them was enough.


	5. The Man Behind The Mask

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes graphic sex.

She left the house and hurried through the cold night air to the training barracks. Her father didn’t like her being there during the day, distracting the men -- distracting one man. It had been months but the sun still bothered his eyes so he lived in a room underground, a room with no lights, no windows, no electricity. All the comforts of home. Only crackling torches in the corridors lead her shadow to his door.

 

The League had improved on the doctor’s original mask, but still he refused to wear it while he slept. It was too confining, too harsh a reminder, triggering memories even as it worked to numb his body head to toe. Instead he would shoot himself up with morphine and sedatives at night so he could get a few hours' rest. But prisoners never sleep deeply, even after they’re free, so when he heard steps in the hallway he crept to the door and hid in the darkness. As soon as the hinges squeaked he grabbed the intruder and slammed him against the wall, one thick leather covered forearm like an iron bar across –

Her throat.

“Talia?”

He released her and she laughed at the surprise on his face. In his months with The League he had recovered his strength, his size, so much so that she felt small again standing in front of him. Or maybe it was because she saw him differently now; his broad shoulders and chest, the crooked smile, even his head, bald now, seemed to fit him better. And since their kiss in the hospital ward she recalled the touch of his lips to hers as if it were a daily prayer. Looking at his body in the firelight made her hungry for something she’d never had, something she couldn’t even imagine. She looked at the ground, sure he could hear her thoughts.

“I came to make sure you were comfortable,” she said. “Since the winter is coming and I know it gets cold down here…”

“In the middle of the night?” He grinned at her, wicked and teasing, his eyes narrowed, one eyebrow raised. 

Because Talia was different to him, too. When she left him she’d been an awkward kid, all gangly limbs and skinned knees, never taught how to be a girl. She’d lost the last of her baby teeth only a week before climbing out of the pit. Now she fit his name for her. She looked strong, regal. There was still a wild look in her eye; she still refused to be proper, but now he could see she was truly a princess, with all of the softness and allure she never saw in the pit. The silk tunic she wore was the same color as her eyes and cut low enough that he could see the fullness of her breasts; the belt was tight around her narrow waist, showing off the curve of her hips. 

There’s nothing to do in prison but think. And in a dank, damp pit full of foul smelling men, thinking of women was what got most of them through the night. He’d always dreamt of a woman he’d never seen, dreamt of seeing her like this, looking at him like this. Now he knew why Ra’s al Ghul had come to him only a few days ago. Now he knew why he guarded his daughter like a jewel. 

_"Give her a chance,"_ he'd said to Bane. _"Give her a chance to forget her life there...her life with you."_

He looked away from her, over her head, but she put her arms around him and pressed her cheek to his chest, her fingertips stroking the length of the scar down his spine.

“If you don’t leave now Princess,” he said, pushing her away and against the wall. “You’re going to find yourself in over your head.”

She laughed. He didn’t. He gave her one more moment to decide, but all she did was stare into his eyes with a look of hunger he’d never seen. He held her against the wall with one hand on her collarbone and kissed her. He was gentle at first, afraid that she’d be frightened of what he felt for her, but when her mouth opened under his lips his tongue slipped over hers like a slick serpent, tempting her to take more. She whimpered and he pulled away, his hand tangled in her hair, his lips on her forehead, her temple, her jaw.

“Did you think of me princess, when you got lonely at night?” She squirmed at the touch of his tongue to her ear and nodded. “Tell me,” he said, his hand moving to the belt of her tunic. “Tell me what you thought about.”

She was embarrassed, confused, but wanted to please him, wanted him to keep wanting her. Whatever she wanted, she didn’t want him to stop.

“I…I thought about you sleeping,” she said. His fingers found her breast and he teased her nipple until she gasped. “I used to watch you sleep.”

As a child she would prop herself up on one elbow and trace his features while he slept; the curves of his ear, the brow unfurrowed, his lips slightly parted while at rest. It was the only time he didn’t look angry or lost in thought. The lids of his eyes were so soft, the stubble of his beard scratchy like the stone walls. What she didn’t know was that there were times when he would pretend to be asleep, just to feel her touch, the first gentleness he’d felt in years, trying hard not to smile at her exploration.

He pressed herself against her now and she could feel the hard length of muscle between his legs. Suddenly she was scared. She didn’t know what he wanted or expected from her, what to do, what to say. His hands were working at her belt, pulling the tunic down over her shoulders. She pushed him away to catch her breath.

“I don’t know how,” she said. “I mean I’ve never…I’m not going to be any good.”

“How would I know?” He asked, moving in slower, kissing her shoulder, the hollow at the base of her throat. Then he brushed her hair away from her face and looked her in the eye. “I waited for you princess,” he said. “You were gone from me for so long, but I always imagined what would happen when you came back. I just want to touch you…every part of you. I want to kiss you, taste you. Isn’t that what you want?”

She closed her eyes and nodded, standing still as he stripped her, like peeling away the bruised petals of a wildflower to find the unspoiled beauty beneath. His hands ran over her skin as if he were memorizing it, sculpting her curves and lines. When he bent down to take one of her hardened nipples between his teeth her knees buckled and he caught her up in his arms, smiling.

“Maybe you should lay down.”

She hid herself in his blankets, holding them to her nose to drink in the smell, leather and musk and the spice of his soap, while he threw his own clothes aside. Her father had taught her about the Olympians, Greek Mythology, Ajax the Warrior. The light from the torches turned his own skin gold and she hid her smile again.

When they were lying side by side he held her face with one hand, making her look at him.

“You have to tell me if you need me to stop."

She nodded but said nothing, closing her eyes as he kissed her. In this sensory isolation there was so much more to feel. His tongue drew a line over her jawbone, the rough tips of his fingers, light as paintbrushes, tickled down the sides of her ribcage, then over the flat of her belly. He moved to kiss her mouth as his hand opened her legs, finding her warm and wet. A bolt of white hot lightning ran down her spine to the spot he rubbed with his thumb. She moaned against his mouth and he pulled away.

“Do you want me to stop?”

She smiled and pushed her hips against his hand,

“No, never.”

One deep stroke and two of his fingers slid inside of her, thrusting slowly as she kissed him deeper, her tongue slipping over his, her arms around his neck to pull him closer. His own body responded to her eagerness, the way she purred and writhed beneath him. He licked at the outside of her ear with the tip of his tongue.

“You can touch me too,” he said, pulling one of her hands from around his back.

This was what she really wanted. This was what she thought about at night when she was lonely but couldn’t put it into words. Growing up around her father’s trainees she’d developed something of an obsession for men’s bodies, the way their muscles moved, their broad backs and rippled stomachs, the hair on their chest and thighs, the bone at the top of their spine. And whenever she thought of men’s bodies, her mind returned to her protector, the man who had slept beside her for nearly eleven years. She’d cried herself to sleep the night she couldn’t recall the precise curve of his shoulder, but now he’d returned, and as he explored her, his wet fingers stroking her to the point of dizziness, she wanted to return the same pleasure.

His skin was hot, rough and scarred, his body hard as iron beneath the skin. She straddled his hips and pushed him onto his back, letting her hair tickle his chest, and when her tongue teased his nipple just as he had hers, he growled like an animal. She shivered, wanting nothing more than for the beast from the pit to return, to growl and pant and consume her, all teeth and claws and passion. She covered his chest in kisses and teasing nibbles; his breastbone, the ripples of his stomach, the hollow of muscle at his hip, her tongue licking one long stroke down the trail of hair below his navel. And then she was there. His cock was rock hard and thick, radiating heat as she let it rest against her cheek. She sat back on her heels to look at him, to take in this prize she’d claimed. His eyes flashed in the dark as he reached for the back of her neck, pulling her down on top of him, his prick trapped between their bellies, every part of them pressed together as if they could absorb one another with their wanting. He held tight to her hair and kissed her mouth, flipping her onto her back. His lips were wet and warm against her neck.

“Spread your legs for me princess, I can’t wait any longer.”

She knew what would happen, wanted it to happen, but still she was nervous looking at him crouching over her like a lion, panting and insatiable. But he knew how to open her up, how to look into her eyes and kiss her bottom lip, how to make her scalp tingle while it felt like her blood bubbled in her veins.

“You’re more beautiful than I even imagined,” he said, his fingers finding her wetness again, stroking slowly until he felt her trembling, pushing back against him. “It’s only going to hurt for a minute,” he said. 

Without another word he slid inside her, transfixed by the warm silky grip of her insides. She cried out in surprise and pain and ecstasy and he covered her mouth with his hand, his fingers that tasted like her.

“Shhh, it’s over. It’s ok.”

She sucked his thumb into her mouth, wanting to taste the salty musk, then pulled his lips to hers to share it. She bucked against him, her own beast emerging.

“Careful little girl,” he said, laughing, “…just let me feel it.”

Neither of them moved; absorbing the feeling of finally becoming one, finally being alone, safe, reunited and free. He never wanted it to end, the rise and fall of her chest, her breath on his shoulder, the warmth of being inside her, how she held him, he felt strong. He felt healthy. He felt no pain. Then she moved, her hips moved and she whispered,

“Keep going.”

He started slow, afraid to hurt her; but his body wanted to push deeper. He wanted to hear her cry out again. She dug her fingers into his back, her face pressed against his shoulder as he thrust into her, their skin slick with sweat. Their moves were ancient, instinctive, fitting a rhythm that ran in their blood, no awkward fumbling, a perfect fit. All he could do was say...breathe her name. When she felt his muscles tensing, when he started groaning, she wrapped her legs around his waist and met each frantic buck of his hips with her own push upwards.

“Talia, I can’t…”

And suddenly she couldn’t see his face anymore. She was lightheaded, euphoric, unable to speak, filled with an incredible tension but also burst wide open. Her body coursed with white hot energy and with a long, drawn out purr from deep in his belly, he came inside her, pushed over the edge by her own muscles clenching around him. For once in his life he’d made someone feel good, and the pleasure it brought him was immeasurable. He pressed his forehead against hers and gasped for breath.

“I…you know I love you. Forever, Talia. No matter what…”

“I love you too, Bane. Forever. Always.”

He didn’t think it was right to say anything more.

She stayed in his room until the sun was high enough to light the corridor outside his doorway, until she could hear the footsteps of other trainees waking up. He watched her dress, resisting the urge to pull her back beneath him and make her scream again, to feel her in his arms just a while longer.

“Never again Bane,” she said, pulling her hair into a tight braid. “Whether you like it or not you’ll never be out of my sight again.”

His smile faded a bit, not enough that she’d notice. Just like back in the pit, he would make her any promise that would keep her safe. He would always love her, and that was the truth.

When she was ready to go he took her into his arms and kissed her deeply; as if breathing life into her, or maybe pulling it into himself. She giggled and he kissed her forehead, her eyelids and once more on her closed lips, believing he’d never feel it again.

“I love you, my princess.”

“I love you, too.”

“Your father saved my life,” he said, rubbing a lock of her hair between his fingertips. “I’ll always be grateful for that, for him letting me come back to you once more. You’re his princess now. He loves you. More than you can imagine.”

“I know that,” she said, smiling. Her eyes grew serious as she wiped a few beads of sweat from his brow. “Please, Bane, please put on your mask. If you really love me, you’ll wear it. I can’t bear to see you like this, to think of you in pain. I can tell already that you’re hurting.”

Once she was gone he went through the liturgy of the mask alone, screwing the connectors into the ports, buckling the side pieces together, fitting the ampoules and locking the hinges, breathing the first waves of relief deep into his lungs. He dressed for the journey with clothes he stole from other recruits; an armored vest, heavy boots and a long shearling coat with a collar large enough to hide his face. In the pockets of his coat were syringes, pills, a handful of vials of some steroid called V and enough ampoules, money and ammunition to get him back to the prison on the motorcycle Ra's Al Ghul "left" behind the barracks with a full gas tank.

He was strong enough now to form his own army, not serve as an unwanted, unappreciated pawn in someone else’s. For some, a mask preserves their anonymity. For him, it would be a definition, a way to find him in a crowd, to hold him accountable for everything he'd done. He was just a man before he put on the mask. Now the world saw him as a monster because they couldn’t see his face. Perhaps a monster was what the world wanted – to make themselves feel better. Now he would be a symbol, an unforgettable image of pain...the last many men would ever see. Perhaps the mask had given him his purpose now that his original purpose was gone.

So now the mask was permanent. And without her, so was the pain.


End file.
